


friends, waffles, and work (or waffles, friends, and work. it doesn’t matter.)

by grahamcrackers



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, idk how to tag, it’s a parks and rec au!, only endgame ships are tagged - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamcrackers/pseuds/grahamcrackers
Summary: Who cares about parks?(Mike Hanlon. Mike Hanlon cares about parks.)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. welcome to derry, maine (population: 70,000)

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly have no excuse for this one, other than the fact that i’m basically quarantined until may and i’m bored off my ass.
> 
> so take this, go, fetch
> 
> i apologize if the characters i chose aren’t 100% accurate, i did my best!!
> 
> please please PLEASE if you enjoy parks and rec and IT go and read https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463663/chapters/33414648 by notsugarandspice
> 
> i read it like a year ago and i have never stopped thinking about it and i love it so much

Sometimes it really seems like the world is out to get him. 

Michael Hanlon, up-and-coming city councilman (first black, gay city councilman, at that, he’s totally gonna lead with that one once he inevitably starts running), is sitting in a dark auditorium that’s much less than ‘filled to the brim’ (which is what Steve had said he was sure to happen, fuck you, Steve) with Betty Ripsom, who looks suspiciously like she hit the bottles of lukewarm coconut rum in her glove compartment a little too hard.

_You love your job, Mike._

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t hold the damn forum.

——————

Mike Hanlon does _not_ hate public forums. Swear to god.

One might think as much, considering the only thought coursing through his head is ‘end me right now’, but he’d tell you that was simply the effects of the half a bottle of Dramamine he’d taken after having to be in the same car as Betty.

“Alright, take two! I’m Michael Hanlon, from the parks and recreation department, and here with me today I have department member Betty Ripsom. We’re here to answer any and all questions, so fire away.”

They’re in a classroom. A fucking second grade classroom.

It’s just that sometimes, people are passionate. Not that being passionate about your town was bad (Mike himself was a strong advocate for people caring), but Derry, Maine wasn’t full of ‘normal’ people.

Case in point…

“Well, it’s a great day because, uh, last month they put me in jail.” 

_Oh, god._

“The, uh-the head of police is a ninth-degree dickhead.”

“But the music is so loud.”

“I DON’T LIKE THE GRAFFITI.“

“I’m not a fan, either, Mr. Torrance, but-“

Mike can practically feel Betty vibrating with exasperation beside him.

“Now, I have a few things I want to say about Molly Ringwald-“

“Thank you so much, Wentworth,” Mike cuts in, rubbing his temples and offering Went a feeble smile, “always great to have you here.”

He clears his throat, exhaling in relief when Wentworth Tozier (he wasn’t an asshole, he just cared. Loudly.) takes his seat.

“Anyone else who would like to contribute-“

Mike’s immediately was drawn to a face he’s never seen at a forum. She’s reasonably pale, with fiery ginger hair that curled at her chin and big blue eyes.

Pretty for sure, which Betty definitely notices.

“Hi, hi, yeah. I’m Beverly Marsh? I’m a nurse, and I honestly don’t really care about politics-“

...a smattering of applause. God, Mike loves working in city government.

_Great, another empty complaint from a disinterested citizen. What is it this time? Your tubes aren’t tied and you wanna change that? Your dog has a tumor? You have a tumor?_

“-um, yeah, and I want to talk about the abandoned lot on Neibolt Street,” Beverly finishes, crossing her arms over her chest and worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Mike nods, holding his hand out for her to continue, grateful for a shift away from things he couldn’t do jackshit to fix (how the hell was he supposed to control the obscenities people used in the comforts of their own homes, Alvin?). “Yes! Let’s talk about that.”

“It’s a problem. My boyfriend almost died.”

“Oh,” a beat.

“Yeah. There’s this lot, right outside my house, and, uh, someone bought the land and dug it up to make some condos, but then they went bankrupt and now there’s just a pit,” Beverly goes on, using her hands to gesticulate, “and my boyfriend fell in it and broke both his legs. He’s a musician, actually, I support him, and-“

“Yeah, Bev, lemme talk to you a minute,” Betty cuts in, holding her palm up to keep Beverly from speaking, “so...your boyfriend fell in this pit, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Betty nods, pointer finger resting against her chin, “and...would you say it’s pretty serious? Like, do you guys live together?”

“...yes?” 

“I bet you’re ready to move on. You know, this guy, boyfriend, whatever, he sounds like he didn’t have much going on for him in the first place, and now with both legs broken, you gotta take care of him...and I bet you wanna get more in touch with yourself, you know? Physically, I mean…”

“Are you hitting on me?” Beverly interrupts, sucking a breath in through her teeth.

Mike wants to smash his brains in with the bright red plastic chair he’s seated on.

Betty leans back in her chair, waving a hand flippantly and shaking her head. “Oh, god no. No, no, no. I’m not hitting on you. I’m actually married. I’m just an open person, very much comfortable with women, spent a lot of time with them…”

“What does this-“

“You know, I think we may be taking up a little too much of the forum’s time, maybe we could, like, I dunno, exchange numbers? Get away one weekend...talk about this more...I’d like that.”

“Look, the bottom line is that I’ve been trying to get this thing fixed for months, and nobody’s done anything about it, and it’s ugly and it’s dangerous, and it’s government-owned, and I want it fixed,” Beverly states firmly, ignoring Betty pointedly and making eye contact with Mike.

The room slowly dissolves into applause, taking Mike by surprise-he honestly hadn’t thought they were paying much attention.

“Hell yeah, girl,” Betty whispers under her breath, clapping a few times along with the rest of the sparsely populated classroom.

“Okay,” Mike breathes, nodding furiously. “I’ll do something about it.”

“Really,” Beverly’s voice betrays an honestly reasonable doubtfulness.

“Yes! We-I will help you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s more than a promise. It’s a pinky promise,” Mike counters, gazing out at the classroom, “I promise all of you that I will help. And I will go to that location tomorrow, and we will fill in that pit, and then, when that’s done, we’re gonna put a park on the land.”

Beverly’s silent for a moment, arms crossed over her chest and one brow raised.

“Okay.”

——————

_“Well, I’ve worked in the parks department for six years and I’ve handled a lot of things that I’m proud of. Recently I led a city-wide drive to disinfect the sandbox sand after we had those problems with the cats. But this pit...the chance to build a whole new park from scratch...this could be my Hoover Dam.”_

——————

“No, that sounds great. But-uh-anything over twenty-five dollars I have to report. So, maybe call my wife and give her the suits, and...maybe if they don’t fit her she’ll give ‘em to me!”

Mike squints as he enters his office, letting the wooden door swing shut as he steps inside. “Morning,” he stops in front of Betty’s desk, where she’s holding up a finger for Mike to be quiet.

“Uh...it was nice talking to you, Mr. Mayor, I’ll see you on Saturday for the ultimate frisbee game,” Betty continues, gazing up at Mike from under her lashes. “Yep. Bye.”

Betty sets the phone back in its cradle, clasping her hands together on top of her desk. “Hey, Mike.”

“You were talking to the mayor?” Mike doesn’t try to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Me and the mayor are like _this_ ,” Betty turns back to her computer, clicking around the screen. “I’m kinda busy, though, right now.”

Mike can see that there’s nothing on her screen.

“No, let’s brainstorm,” Mike slaps his hand down on Betty’s desk, drawing her eyes up to him.

She rolls her eyes, grabbing a yellow paper notepad and dropping it on the desktop.

“We...we need a committee. A committee for the pit, yeah? Committees are the lifeblood of our democracy,” Mike pauses, looking out the window through the slats of the window shades. “...that’s really good. Write that down.”

_“When genius hits, Mike has me record what he says on a notepad. I...do not listen, so I just write down random shit.”_

“Okay, read it back to me,” Mike wiggles his fingers on the left hand, his right thumb stuck in his belt loop.

“Um…’committees cover our democracy with blood’,” Betty relays, knuckles pressed against her cheek.

_Oh. Sounded better when I said it. Still good, though._

“I’ve got an idea, how ‘bout we call Tom?”

“Tom?” Betty’s bullshitting him, he knows, because he’s not stupid, and he knows she hates him. Honestly, he does too, but-

“-if you want to get something done around here, you talk to Tom Rogan. Because he’s city planner. And if we talk to the city planner…” Mike trails off, clearly expecting for Betty to finish off his statement, but she’s just staring at him blankly, waiting for him to stop talking so she can get back to whatever bullshit she’d been doing rather than working. “If we talk to the city planner, we can get this pit filled and the park built!”

“Honestly? You want my opinion?” Betty asks, kicking back and slinging her feet over so they were laying on the desktop. “Because I honestly think he’s an asshole. You shouldn’t talk to him.”

Mike considers this, but Mike Hanlon also wants his goddamn park built, so Mike Hanlon looks out the slats of the blinds and points. “He’s eating lunch in the courtyard.”

“And you’re gonna sit down and talk to Stan about getting together a forum?”

“Nope,” Mike decides, ducking out of the room and ignoring Betty’s whines of ‘dude, you left a weird aura! I can’t vibe like this!’.

Mike doesn’t regret this. Mike doesn’t regret this at all! Because even though Tom is an asshole, and stupid and dumb and generally just not fun or cool or groovy, Mike’s going to get his park.

“Rogan!” Mike calls as he enters the courtyard, jogging over to the concrete table in the center of it and sitting down beside Tom without invitation. 

“Umm...hi? Hansen, right?” Tom looks beyond disinterested, and he bites into his sandwich with as much anger as Mike guesses you can convey while eating fucking Subway.

“Hanlon,” Mike corrects, slapping his palms down on the concrete and putting on a smile he hopes doesn’t seem too fabricated.

Tom sips at his drink, glancing at Mike to coax him to start talking again. 

_You don’t have to tell me twice, jackass. I’m going to blow your socks off with how good my proposal is, just you wait._

“Neibolt Street. Know it? Because I sure do, and I know there’s a pit.”

“Oh, you mean Lot 48?” Tom raises a brow, thoughtfully chewing his sandwich and washing it down with the drink. “Yeah, I know it. A developer bought it to make condos, went broke, and left it like that. It ain’t ever getting filled.”

Mike’s honestly resisting the urge to take this dude’s stupid sandwich and shove it down his throat. “Well,” he probably looks creepy as hell, eyes wide and smile wider, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about! I wanna make the pit into a park.”

It’s dead silent. Mike’s smiling at Tom and Tom looks like he’s going to choke on his stupid Italian BMT with a side of Garden Salsa Sunchips and god he’s a prick.

“Didn’t take you for a comedian, Hansen. That pit? It’s never getting filled.”

——————

“Baby, do me a favor and straighten up your area a little bit. They’re gonna be here soon.”

Richie flips a crumbling cracker into his mouth with his grabber, adding a few crumbs to the hours worth that are quickly making a home for themselves in between the couch cushions.

“Babe, I-thank you,” Beverly sighs, taking the beer bottle Richie’s holding out to her with the grabber and turning back to the kitchen.

“Can’t wait till you get your casts off, dear god,” she mutters under her voice, setting the newspapers and the beer bottle on the dining room table. She’s jolted from her thoughts when she hears the doorbell, straightening up and turning around to get the door.

“Doorbell,” Richie calls out, and he probably thinks he’s being helpful, because apparently the asshole doesn’t know she isn’t deaf.

“I’m getting it, I heard it,” Beverly replies, dusting off her scrubs and speed walking through the living room towards the door. 

It rings again.

“Hey, hey, doorbell!” Richie yells, currently scrolling Netflix and letting his head loll back against the back of the couch.

“Not deaf, Rich,” Beverly sighs, opening the door.

Mike’s wearing a hard hat, and he’s with two others-Betty, from the night before, and a boy who looks as if he’d rather be dead.

“Hi! Oh, wow, look at that,” Beverly steps aside so they can entire the house, eyeing the hard hat which is honestly completely unnecessary, because why the hell would you need a hard hat to look at a pit?

Mike steps in, followed by his posse, and looks around. “Hi! You already know Betty,” he pauses, and Betty holds her hand out to Beverly (she does not take it), “and this is Eddie! He’s our college intern, gonna be documenting our fact-finding mission.”

“Hi, Eddie,” Beverly greets, hands on her hips, offering a hand to Eddie. “Is this fun for you?”

Eddie looks at her hand, scoffs, and doesn’t take it. “Yeah. It’s so much fun.”

“I’m just gonna get my phone, sorry,” Beverly mumbles, turning back around to enter the dining room again.

“Welcome to mi casa! Soy Ricardo. Uh, Richie,” Richie wiggles his fingers at them, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scratching his eyebrow.

“And this must be him! The man heard ‘round the world,” Mike crouches down, hands on his thighs, and examines Richie. “How are you doing, buddy?”

“Pretty good, pretty good. Hey, any of you seen Gossip Girl?” Richie asks, glancing at the TV and raising a brow expectantly.

“Gossip Girl is dumb as hell,” Eddie breathes behind Mike, and Mike pretends he doesn’t hear it.

“Um...I’m Mike Hanlon, and I just wanna let you know that the entire Derry Government is going to do whatever we can to help you,” Mike holds out his hand to shake, making a face when Richie takes it and just holds it.

_Why is his hand sticky, why is it sticky, why is it sticky oh my god-_

Richie drops his hand, much to Mike’s relief. “Can...you pass me my itch stick?”

“Of course,” Mike grabs the itch stick, which isn’t even that far from Richie’s hand, and gives it to him, smiling apologetically.

_It’s all part of the process, Mike. You care. The government cares._

He watches, vaguely uncomfortably, as Richie sticks the thing down his cast, itching his leg so aggressively he looks like he’s gonna tear the skin off.

“That...is so gross,” Eddie scoffs, taking his phone out of his bag and chewing on his thumbnail.

——————

“So...Richie climbed over the fence over there, he was crossing through to get home, and he fell in right,” Beverly swirls her finger in a circle in the direction of a particularly large pile of dirt, “there.”

“Oh, god,” Mike groans, stopping on one of the plateaus overlooking the pit. The others-save Richie-stop behind him, and Betty kicks a rock into the pit, nudging Eddie enthusiastically when she hits the rusty lid of a garbage can. “Just imagine it, Beverly. A park. Right here.”

He loops his thumbs through the belt looks of his pants, gazing out at the dirt.

_It’s no Metropolis, but it’ll do._

“With slides, and seesaws, and swings, and a swimming pool,” he sees Eddie wrinkle his nose to the left of him, leaning forward to look at something in the pit (oh god is that a dead possum), “and a volleyball court, and a tennis court, and a basketball court, and a baseball field. Football field, too, maybe.”

Beverly shakes her head. “It’s not that big of a pit.”

“We’ll have some of those things,” Mike compromises, holding his hand above his eyes to shield them from the harsh sunlight, “it’s gonna take a little extra work, but I’m willing to put it in.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Beverly agrees, turning to meet Mike’s gaze with a self-assured smile.

“I’m going in,” Mike turns to the pit, stomping closer to the edge than probably necessary. “Eddie! Document this!”

Eddie groans and holds up his phone. “Okay, why?”

“I want to document this! You gotta get right up in the battle zone. It’s like when George Bush when he flew over New Orleans! Or Richard Nixon, when he went to China,” Mike is carefully planting his feet on outward jutting rocks and stones, adjusting his hard hat.

Which, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, considering how unsteady the rocks are, and-

“OH GOD.”

Mike’s tumbling down the side of the pit, and the hard hat falls off about halfway down, and oh shit there’s _dirt in my eye what the fuck what the fuck_ , and then he’s sprawling on the ground, groaning and clutching at his arm.

“Mike!” Betty’s shit at pretending she’s not laughing. “Hang on, we’ll-Eddie’s gonna take some pictures, okay? For the website!”

“Can you stop moving around so much? Stay still?” Eddie holds up his phone and snickers from behind the screen, covering his mouth with a hand and moving the phone around his face, trying to get as many angles as he can.

_Har har har, Eddie, laugh it up aaaall you want, but I think my clavicle’s broken and oh god my clavicle’s broken._

——————

“Squeeze my fingers, yep,” Beverly is sitting in the pit, holding Mike’s hands and watching him with bated breath as he complies. “You good?”

“I’m great! I’m awesome,” honestly, Mike is not awesome, he thinks his clavicle is broken, and his head hurts because he hit it on a rod (with a hard hat), but he doesn’t want to worry Beverly too much.

Beverly laughs, gently caressing Mike’s cheek with her thumb and shaking her head. “No, you’re not.”

“Good thing I had my hard hat, though.”

“...it fell off halfway down, though,” Beverly points out, picking up an ice pack and holding it to Mike’s temple, shaking her head.

Mike scoffs, holding his hands out and pointing at a rusting metal bar jutting out of the side of a cliff of hard pressed dirt. “Not before I hit my head on that rod!”

“Oh, my god.”

——————

“Dude, it’s totally awesome that you fell in the pit, too!” Richie balls his hand into a fist, holding it up into the air for Mike to bump. “Fucking rad, dude.”

“It’s not awesome, Richie,” Beverly scolds and leans over the couch to grab a plastic tupperware container that had previously been filled with leftover spaghetti (“Fucking love spaghetti, dude, it’s the best. Best kind of pasta for sure,” Richie had lamented, oddly passionately for talking about a simple pasta dish.)

Mike shrugs and bumps Richie’s fist, using his other arm and hugging a throw pillow to his chest. “Well, at least my boss will listen to me now that my clavicle’s broken.”

Beverly stiffens and shakes her head, gently scratching Richie’s scalp with a hand before withdrawing it to pick up some trash around the couch. “It’s not...broken.”

“It is. Do you have one of those, like, neck braces?” Mike asks, craning his neck to look at Beverly and groaning when he moves it (and if he’s putting on just a bit, who cares?).

“Honestly, you’re fine,” Beverly promises.

Mike rolls his eyes, shrugging and looking at his hands with wide eyes. “Well, honestly, my clavicle’s broken.”

Beverly doesn’t reply, just gathers her things and goes to enter the kitchen.

“Oh, oh, Bevvie, baby,” Richie calls, sitting up a bit straighter and hopefully looking back at Beverly, who honestly just looks tired. “If you’re going to the kitchen, can you make me pancakes reeeal quick? Please?”

“Sure, Rich,” Beverly relents, and, when pancakes are mentioned, who’s Mike to deny them. 

“Oh, are pancakes being made?”

——————

_“I mean, yeah, he’s a little...doofy, but he’s sweet.”_

——————

“Stan. Please.”

“No, no way.”

If there was one thing Stanley fucking Uris is, it’s stubborn. 

Good thing Mike Hanlon’s persistent.

“Come on, Stan! I’ve been a loyal foot soldier for so long! Just let me have my shot. Let me have Lot 48.”

Stan is silent for a moment, and Mike knows it’s foolish of him to think he’s going to give in. 

“Is that a travel pillow around your neck?”

Mike brushes that off, because first of all, rude, his clavicle is broken, and he’s digging through his pockets for the photos. From the fact-finding mission (he’d learned that Eddie isn’t actually the best cameraman, honestly).

“Listen, when you’ve been in the pit, like me and poor, poor Richie Tozier-“

“When you fell in?”

“When I visited the pit for my fact-finding mission, yes. Have you visited the bottom of the pit, Stan? Because when you’re down there,” Mike is slapping the photos Eddie printed out down onto the desk, “you get some perspective. About what it all means.”

Stan raises his eyebrows at Mike.

“And what it means is that I want this subcommittee.”

——————

“I’ve been quite open about this around the office, I don’t want this parks department to build any parks, because I don’t believe in government. I think that all government is a waste of taxpayer money. My dream is to have the park system privatized and run entirely for profit by corporations. Like Chuck-E-Cheese. They have an impeccable business model,” Stan laments, adjusting a tiny whittled bird on his desk, “I would rather work for Chuck-E-Cheese.”

Betty watches in horror from the next office over, as he is, indeed, speaking to nobody.

——————

“Well, I will definitely think about it,” Stan gives in, mostly just to get Mike to leave.

“I like the sound of that definitely! I’m gonna leave before you change your mind!”

Stan, behind him, drags the printed photos off the desk and into the wastebasket, lips set in a hard line.

——————

“Yeah. It’s one of our most historical paintings for sure. The Black Spot Fire,” Mike drags his fingers along the painting, currently showing Beverly the images of burning African American men and women depicted in the hall. “Sometimes we have field trips and we have to cover it.”

“I can see that,” Beverly squints at the painting, gripping her bag a little tighter.

“So. What else do you wanna see? I know every inch of this place-“

“Mike!” Betty is jogging down the hall, which is Mike’s first clue that something’s up. Betty doesn’t run anywhere. “We did it. We got a subcommittee.”

Oh, Betty’s fucking with him. There’s no way.

“Seriously?”

“Hell yeah, I’m serious! We got the pit!”

Mike could fucking float. Or scream in happiness. Or, god, sing.

He settles for grabbing Beverly’s hands. “We got the lot! We got the lot!”

Beverly looks as relieved as he does elated. “We got the lot!” She repeats, squeezing his hands.

“I also have a suggestion, if I may. You should hold an office meeting.”

_“Sometimes Mike calls these office parties, and he gets absolutely wasted. Last time he fought a raccoon at the trashcan because Kay told him he couldn’t.”_

Mike drops Beverly’s hands. He’s done it. He’s made it. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make a difference here.

——————

“...and so, I thought, canvassing!”

“What the hell...even is that?” Eddie groans, eyes stuck to his phone screen while he plays Crossy Road.

Mike reaches across the table, pushing the phone down away from Eddie’s face. “Come on, Eddie, phone down, lemme see those pretty eyes, wake up! We’re going door to door to rally support. For the forum tonight.”

“That’s dumb as hell. I don’t wanna do that,” Eddie grumbles, dropping the phone onto the tabletop and dragging his fingers down his face.

Kay McCall even stands up, messes with her hair a moment, and leaves.

“Kay-come back-oh,” Mike grumbles, rubbing his forehead and looking to Stan for support.

Stan turns a blind eye.

_Nobody ever said being a genius was easy._

——————

“Hey, dad,” Mike mumbles as he enters the office of Will Hanlon.

Will looks up from his paperwork, raising a brow and leaning back. “Mikey. What can I do ya for?”

Mike twists his fingers together nervously and shrugs. “Well. I’m hosting a community forum tonight, and I’d really love it if you could come.”

Will frowns. And _oh_ , Mike knows that frown.

“You know I’m busy, Mike.”

“I know. You don’t have to, I just-wanted to invite you. In case.”

“...I’ll think about it.”

Goddamnit, that’s enough for Mike.

——————

“How many more citizens are going to have to fall into this pit before we turn it into a park?” Mike asks, hands on his hips, looking out into the pit and quitting at the group of four in front of him.

_Rogan, Kaspbrak, Marsh, Ripsom, Hanlon. Aren’t we a bunch._

They’re silent. Dead silent. Tom looks like he’s about to burst into hysterical laughter, the asshole.

_Come on, guys, give me something. Anything._

“Zero. Say it, I wanna hear you say it.”

“Zero.”

“Zero.”

“Zero.”

“A hundred.”

_Eddie, I swear to god, shut the hell up you little bitch._

“I got some sunscreen for your beaks. And I brought our canvassing packets, please open those up-“ Mike instructs, pulling binders out of the bag he’s placed at his feet. 

“‘If a person is a man, turn to page two’,” Tom reads, wrinkling his nose as he flips the page.

“‘If a person looks like a celebrity, use this to help your pitch. For example; you can’t handle the pit, that’s why we need to turn it into a park’,” Betty reaches over after reading her piece, swiping a sour patch from Eddie’s fingers.

Beverly snaps her binder shut with a nod. “These are really thorough.”

“Me and Bev are a team, you all are a team, we have even sectors you have odd sectors, we’re gonna win,” Mike insists, beaming (sue him, he’s excited! He’s getting his park!).

“Win what?”

“...go!”

——————

“Ooh! There’s a person in there! Are you excited?” Mike asks, standing on somebody’s doorstep with Beverly, binder held open in his arms.

“Hell yeah, it’s exciting!” Beverly agrees, and she quickly snaps into what she’s come to refer to as her ‘nurse at the end of a long shift’ persona.

A woman with short brown hair pulled the door open, heavy bags under her eyes and her tongue flicking out to wet her lips.

“Hi! We’re representatives from your local government. Do you have the time to discuss the Neibolt Street Pit?”

There’s a beat of silence, but Mike can tell she’s interested. At least a little bit. “Sure, yeah.”

“Alright, positive response-“ Mike flips through his binder, grinning. “How would you feel if I told you we were going to turn that pit into a beautiful community park?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” the woman agrees, crossing her arms.

Beverly jumps in easily, which is decidedly not a part of the script Mike wrote up. “I actually live here in the community, and I could-“ she’s cut off when Mike nudges her in the side with his elbow, backtracking and flipping through the pages, “we’re holding a community forum tomorrow night if you’d like to come...voice your strong support.”

“Oh, tomorrow night? I can’t make it,” the woman doesn’t seem very sorry, and turns around to shut the door on them.

“Would it change your mind if-oh, she’s gone,” and Mike’s a bit discouraged, honestly.

_Well, you win some, you lose some._

“Onto the next one!”

——————

“A park, that sounds like a great idea,” there’s a man holding his groceries in front of the group of three, and he’s been looking Eddie up and down the whole time they’ve been talking. “Is there gonna be a playground? Maybe a pool for the kids?”

“Oh, how old are your kids?” Tom asks, trying to make pleasant conversation.

“No kids,” he clarifies, blinking behind thick spectacles.

Betty clicks her tongue. “Uh-oh.”

“I’m putting him down as a yes,” Eddie decides quickly, clicking his pen.

“Don’t do that, please,” Tom winces.

“And is the park going to be a thousand feet from my house? I really...can’t move again,” the man steps forward once, a bit closer to Eddie.

Tom clears his throat. “Eddie, please get behind me,” he clasps his hands behind his back. “That’s it! That’s all we’ve got.”

“No flyer or anything?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Thank you,” the man nods to Tom once and starts towards his house, and none of them miss how he turns around to look at Eddie again.

“I love canvassing,” Eddie states proudly.

——————

“It’s a good idea! But I'm just not sure.”

“Okay, what part are you not sure about?”

“Turning the pit into a park.”

_Oh, my god._

“That’s...the whole thing.”

——————

“Look, I think this is a great idea, I just can’t make any forum. I’d need to get a babysitter-“

“How old are your kids?”

“Two and four.”

“Can the four year old watch the two year old?”

“Okay, we’re leaving,” Beverly huffs, grabbing Mike’s arm and leading him back down the driveway.

——————

“Wouldn’t you agree, like most decent americans, that we would benefit from turning the abandoned lot on Neibolt Street into a park?” Mike asks their next victim, as Beverly has begun calling them.

“Oh, no, actually. I think they’re too noisy and they smell like barbecue all the time,” she explains, smiling apologetically as her kid plays in the background.

“Would it change your mind if I told you that nine out of ten meth users said the same thing?”

_Nice, Michael. Real smart._

“I’m sorry, what? How do you know that?”

“Survey,” Mike speaks fast, looking at his feet. “We surveyed meth users.”

Beverly cuts in, trying to save him from certain disaster. “We’re actually holding a forum, tomorrow, if you’d like to come.”

_The devil works hard but Beverly Marsh works harder._

“Listen, I know it sounds weird, but I just don’t like living next to parks. Do you have a flier or something?” She asks, holding a hand out.

Beverly gives her the flier, and she clearly thinks she’s fixed the situation, but she obviously doesn’t know Mike Hanlon well enough yet to know that he’s not done.

“If you don’t support this park you don’t love your kids,” Mike blurts.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean that...kids love parks, and you should to,” Mike is desperately trying to come back from that.

The woman looks pissed. “So if I don’t support your little project I don’t love my son?” She looks at the flier and then back up at Mike. “When is this thing anyway?”

Mike checks his non-existent watch. “Oh, it’s next month.”

“It’s tomorrow night! I’ll be there,” she decides, turning to her son and holding her hand out. “Danny, let’s go inside, baby!”

Mike turns to Beverly, who looks just about ready to kill him. “We got one!”

——————

“People are so mean,” Mike whines, walking in step beside Beverly as the continue around the neighborhood. They’re next to Bev’s house now, about to go for another go-round.

“Yeah. Maybe if they saw all of Richie’s medical bills they’d have more sympathy,” Beverly agrees, sounding as discouraged as Mike looks.

And. Wow. Beverly whatever-her-middle-name-is Marsh is a genius.

“Bev. You beautiful genius. Oh my god,” Mike starts, and he’s practically glowing. “Richie! He’s our case! We wheel him around and garner the sympathy vote from the neighborhood! He’s a cute FDR.”

Beverly covers her mouth, nodding furiously and grinning. “Holy fuck! Dude, that could work!”

Mike grabs Beverly’s hand, tugging her up the stone walkway to the front door as Bev fumbles for her keys. “Do you have a nurse outfit?”

“Like, scrubs?” Beverly scoffs, frowning at the doorknob. The door’s already unlocked.

“Yeah. Put those on.”

“-CAR IS IN THE FRONT YARD, AND I’M-“

Richie sits on the couch, screaming into the microphone on Rock Band. Eddie’s to his left, playing the drums, a kitchen towel tossed over his head, and Tom’s playing guitar.

“CAME IN THROUGH THE WINDOW, LAST NIGHT!”

Tom locks eyes with Mike, hands dropping to his sides, and Eddie pushes the towel up and off his head, sucking a breath in through his teeth.

“AND YOU’RE-“ Richie pauses to nudge Eddie, holding the mic in between them enthusiastically. “C’mon, Spaghetti, take it away-!”

Eddie leans in close to the mic, swipes a hand through his hair, and says “your girlfriend is in the doorway, dicktwitch.”

“My wh-oh, hey, baby,” Richie mutters, setting down the mic on the table and waving feebly. “Wanna play?”

Mike throws his binder down on the ground.

——————

Mike is officially freaking out. This forum is going to be a disaster. Betty has invited a ton of local businessmen to the forum, which would ordinarily be amazing, but not when there was some psycho lady in attendance that hates parks.

Beverly pushes the door open, leading Richie into the room with a hand on his lower back. 

“Hi, sorry we’re late,” Beverly apologizes, giving Mike a brief hug. “I brought Richie for support.”

Richie swings back and forth with his crutches, nodding at the admission. “I know my way around a stage. Plus, it’s just a park. How much can they hate a park?”

“I dunno, a lot of them sure seemed to hate a park yesterday.”

“Oh god, I’m so nervous, my palms are sweating. Are my hands shaking? I bet they’re shaking,” Mike rants, whirling around. “Eddie! Eddie, come here.”

Eddie slides his phone into his pocket, getting up and shuffling over to Mike. He makes eye contact with Richie, waving at him timidly. “Hey, asshole.”

“Hey ya, Spaghetti,” Richie returns, brightening nearly instantly, “alright alright alright alright-“

Beverly looks from Richie to Eddie and back again, chewing on her lower lip and flicking Richie. “Hey, leave him be.”

Mike grabs Eddie’s shoulders, licking his lips and knitting his brows together hopefully. “Eddie. I need you to go sit in the audience, and if the energy in that room gets too negative you need to get up and sell the hell out of this park. Can you do that?”

“Probably,” Eddie shrugs simply, crossing his arms.

“Good boy, Eddie, good boy,” Mike sighs in relief, petting Eddie’s head. “Good probably.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Eddie scoffs, ducking away from Mike and moving to go out into the audience.

“Hey, hey,” Richie presses, turning around on his crutches to look at Eddie, “...good boy, Eds,” he teases, like an asshole.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, Mike is thinking that this is going to be a disaster.

——————

“Thank you all so much for coming out tonight! This is officially our first town meeting concerning turning the lot on Neibolt Street into a park,” Mike greets, wincing at the harsh feedback he gets from the mic. The room is silent. “Yeah!” He tries, which does nothing to garner cheers or anything. Not even a single clap.

“There are a lot of people in strong support of this park. Unfortunately, none of them could make it tonight, but they totally exist. I did not make them up,” Mike goes on, fully aware of how pathetic he sounds. “Now. Do we have any questions? Ope, I see a question-“

_Holy shit it’s that psycho lady that hates her kids._

“No, actually, we aren’t taking questions-“ he’s trying, he really is, but she’s already at the mic.

“Hi, my name is Wendy Torrance, and I am one hundred percent against this park,” she starts, looking around the room, “and I’m honestly shocked that the department is doing this project without doing a single environmental impact study, and if you guys agree with me, let’s take a stand!”

Mike’s really starting to feel like shit now, oh yes he is, because the whole room dissolved into cheering and applause.

And one of Betty’s sponsors stands up and leaves.

“Um. Well. We are running a bit ahead of schedule, because this forum is so early, which...Tom Rogan warned me about...Tom’s the city planner assigned to the project and he’s...he knows the answer to everything, so what would he say,” Mike’s speaking to himself, he’s aware, but he’s also buying time.

“Do you want me to give them the info on the lot?” Tom asks, standing up and leaning close to Mike. 

Mike nods, stepping off to the side. “Tom’s going to give you the rundown. The 4-1-1. The hot gossip.”

“Uh. The lot is a rectangular lot. It’s on the corner of Neibolt Street and Route 2. Any questions?” Tom asks, raising a brow.

“I actually have a comment, more than a question,” a man is standing in the back of the room, holding his hand up.

“Go for it.”

“It’s actually for the guy in the cast-“

Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, here we go. _Lawrence_.”

“Yes, yes, that is Richie Tozier. Neibolt Street resident! He tragically fell in the pit,” Mike scrambles to get to the mic, which only projects the tail end of his statement.

“Uh, yeah, I don’t care about any of that,” Lawrence scowls at Richie, “he’s the guy that plays music all night in his garage. It’s driving me nuts!”

“Lawrence, uh, lives with his grandma! Which is pretty awesome, I guess he takes care of her or whatever. Anyways. He’s a douche,” Richie states, speaking to Betty and Mike more than anyone else.

“It’s loud, it’s abusive, and it’s waking up my birds!” Lawrence continues, ignoring Richie’s tirade.

“Oh-ho-ho, you have _birds_ now?” 

“Yes, I have birds!” Lawrence jabs his finger down towards the ground to emphasize. “I have nice, pretty, expensive birds, and you play that music and it wakes them up!”

Richie sits up in his chair, arms crossed. “Look, I don’t work for the government. Uh, I do play rock ‘n roll. Guilty as charged. Uh, I’m in a band, it’s called ‘Just the Tip’. And, actually, if anyone plays bass, we need a bassist.”

“Aaaand I say we take a five minute break, yeah? Five minutes everyone, yep,” Mike cuts in, trying desperately to avoid a disaster.

He halfway doesn’t even care about the groaning and moaning in the crowd, just concerned about getting backstage and drinking some whiskey. Or gatorade, whatever works best.

“That...is going terribly,” Stan doesn’t sugarcoat it once they’re backstage. “Honestly? In the top ten of worst forums I’ve even been to. You need to get back out there, make a few good talking points, and, whatever you do, avoid a vote.”

Mike’s gulping down gatorade like it’s air. “Can do, boss.

“Is it fucked that I’m kinda attracted to Wendy Torrance?” Betty asks.

Mike groans.

——————

“Welcome back! Now, before we go on, I thought I would give you some background on this great, great town. Derry-“ Mike slaps his hands down on the surface of the podium, “was started in 1770. Scottish settlers found the town and staked their claim, making Derry into a beaver trapping camp. All of these settlers later went missing, and a trail of bloody clothes was discovered leading to the well house.”

He pauses, anticipating any reaction. The crowd reads like the dead. “Flash forward to 1969. Man walks on the moon. Derry is lousy with racist hippies.”

“My god, he’s filibustering his own meeting,” Stan whispers in horror.

“-I can’t speak of the future, but I will. I predict that in the future, Derry citizens will be flying around. And talking on watches and emoting our feelings to one another through blinks rather than words,” Mike predicts, leaning over the podium, “and now, I’m going to take you on a magical journey through a little something I like to call ‘The Phantom Tollbooth’. By Norton Juster.”

“Excuse me, can’t you read that children’s book on your own time?” Wendy asks, impossibly rude.

Mike ignores her and opens the book. “There once was a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself. Not just sometimes, but always-“

“Okay, you know what, this is a public forum, which means we all get to tell you what we think.”

Mike snaps his book shut. “Well, I’ve already heard what you think, ma’am. I’d like to hear from someone I don’t know, um...how about that boy with the yellow shirt and brown hair, how ‘bout him?”

Eddie stands up at being called out, shuffling his way to the microphone setup.

“Hi, go ahead, say what you think!”

“Hi. I’m a youth in the community. Aaaand...I think a park is a great idea. And I fully support it,” Eddie praises, stepping back.

Lawrence stands up, pointing at him accusingly. “I know that kid! He came to my door yesterday asking about the park.”

“Oh, my god,” Wendy sounds shocked-which, how is she shocked? Mike doesn’t find this that surprising. “They have planted people in this audience. Listen, we all agree that this park is a bad idea. I say we take a vote!”

“Okay, we will take a vote, but first, I want all of you up and lined up behind that microphone. Every one of you. Let’s go,” Mike snaps his fingers at the mic encouragingly.

And oh, god, the things it does to Mike’s confidence.

“YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT. YOU KNOW THAT? YOUR OUTFIT IS DUMB AND I DON’T LIKE YOUR HAIR.”

“I just think you’re rude, inconsiderate, and honestly? I don’t feel comfortable having someone of your type in my neighborhood all the time.”

“Do you think this’ll take more than a week? I don’t wanna wait that long.”

“And it’s just beep, beep, beep, at five every morning! I need my sleep, I can’t do that when there’s so much construction noise-“

“Thank you, ma’am, thank you ma’am, that concludes our meeting,” Mike yells, banging his gavel furiously.

Wendy looks unimpressed. “What about the vote?”

“We’re out of time. It’s nine. But not to worry, we will have many public forums in the future, I promise,” Mike sighs in relief as they begrudgingly begin filing out, slumping into the seat behind him.

It’s tiring, yeah, but it’s democracy. His subcommittee just held its first community forum. And god, he loved every second.

“Hey, park guy,” Lawrence yells at the door.

“Yeah?”

“You suck.”

Mike can’t help the swell of pride in his chest.

_He called me park guy._


	2. we live in a fish bowl and the public is always watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview going wrong doesn't mean the whole project is off, no, but it does put a damper in the process. And so does underage drinking, as it turns out.
> 
> OR 
> 
> Mike's still trying to get the ball rolling on the park project, Richie and Beverly argue a bit too much, and Eddie has no regard for alcohol laws.

“Alright. So. Before we do this, I do have a few rules that are mandatory for everyone!” Mike calls, palms flat on the conference room table and eyes scanning the room.

Audra Phillips is coming to interview them about the pit, which is a huge deal, because Audra works for the Derry Journal and the Derry Journal is basically the New York Times, but ten times more important. Plus, Audra Phillips did car commercials in Japan once. So yeah, this interview is a big deal.

Mike looks around the small room, examining each and every one of their faces-Eddie, Betty, Bev, and Richie-in a poor attempt to gauge who would inevitably fuck this up for him. His money was on Betty.

“Rule number one-stay on message! One wrong move and Audra writes a horrible article about us,” Mike begins, slapping his palms down on the table for emphasis, “and rule two is...drumroll please,” there’s no drumroll, “stay on message! That’s how important it is. It’s rules one and two.”

“I-ah-I’ve got a question,” Richie says, raising his hand as if he’s in a classroom or something, “what’s rule number two? I wasn’t paying attention.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers at Richie from across the table. “Stay on message, shit-for-brains.”

“That was rule one, dipshit.”

“Stay on message was both rules, you’d know that if you paid any attention whatsoever-“

“Richie! Please,” Beverly cuts in, letting her hand settle over Richie’s and frowning softly. “Stay on message. We’ve got it.”

And Mike really, really wants to believe they’ve got it, but the way Eddie and Richie are holding a heated gaze over the table tells him otherwise.

——————

“Audra! Welcome, welcome,” Mike is nervous as hell. He’s going to throw up, swear to god. “Could I interest you in a tour?”

Audra waves a perfectly manicured hand flippantly, tossing her silky hair over a shoulder. “I’ve been here before. Thanks, though.”

Mike’s got a smile permanently engraved onto his face. He probably looks like the result of a botched plastic surgery appointment. “Tour?”

——————

“Maybe one day you’ll figure out how to spell a three-letter word, Ripsom!” Stan calls, walking past Betty and raising a brow.

_“I play a lot of online Scrabble with my boss, Stan Uris, and, oh my god, that guy is the best. Beats me every time. He’s awesome.”_

——————

By the time Mike leads Audra back to the conference room, he’s relaxed the tiniest bit. That’s not much, admittedly, but at least now he doesn’t feel the urge to projectile vomit on the face of the portrait Bob Gray, the infamous child-murdering founding father of Derry.

That is, until they’re actually in the conference room.

“No, I think if I were anyone from Glee I’d be Rachel Berry,” Richie’s saying, leaning the upper portion of his body over the table, engrossed in conversation with Eddie and Betty. “And Eddie’s Kurt.”

“What? How come I’m Kurt?” Eddie argues, planting his palms on the tabletop.

Richie smirks, and Mike wishes he lived on Mars. Or Bangor. Anywhere but fucking here. _“Twink.”_

“Hey, hey, you’re both wrong. Eddie’s Santana, because he’s angry and also a bitch. Rich...you’re Brittany because you’re stupid,” Betty interrupts, clearly proud of her decision, slumping back against her seat again.

Beverly is so far resigned Mike can see her eyes rolling into the back of her skull.

“Okay!” Mike claps his hands once, loud and aggressive, trying desperately to keep the train from barreling off the track. “This is Audra, everybody, she’ll be interviewing us for the Derry Journal, please be on your best behavior.” He directs that last bit at Richie, who’s staring up at him innocently. Little bitch. “That there is Eddie Kaspbrak, nineteen. He’s cool enough to be anywhere and yet he chooses to be here. Next to him is Betty Ripsom, smooth as...smoothie bowls.”

“Weird way to describe me.”

“There’s Beverly Marsh, the citizen that brought the pit to our attention, and next to her is Richie Tozier, the citizen who fell in it.”

Audra’s tapping her pen against her notepad, and Mike thinks the action is condescending enough to put goddamn Gwenyth Paltrow to shame.

“Why don’t we have a seat and we can get this show on the road, yeah?” Audra raises a brow and gestures at two open seats. 

Mike blinks dumbly. “Uh.”

Audra sits down anyways, pushing her tape recorder into the center of the table and setting her palms down on either side of her notepad. “It’s cool if I record all this, right?”

Mike follows suit, albeit reluctantly, sliding into the chair across the table from Audra and twisting his hands together nervously. “Yep. That way it’s verbatim.”

“So, Mike, you’re in charge of this committee?”

Let’s just say Mike gets nervous around tape recorders. He leans across the table and turns off the recorder before he answers, hot under the collar. “I’m sorry. It’s a subcommittee, not a committee, so…”

Audra is unimpressed. “We can do all this on tape.”

“Right. Sorry. Sure we can.”

“And this is where you meet generally?” Audra goes on, turning the recorder back on with a perfectly manicured thumbnail.

Mike can’t help himself. He turns off the tape recorder again. “We meet in a lot of different places, this isn’t the only one. So...I didn’t really know how to answer that.”

Audra turns it on again, some sort of tug-of-war between the two of them. “How about I ask some of your team a few questions, then we can get back to you? That way you can collect your thoughts.”

“Okay! Yeah! Sounds good. These are the real heroes.”

Nothing else will go wrong. Hopefully.

Mike should, frankly, know better by now.

“How about you tell me about the night you fell into the pit, then, Mr. Tozier?” Audra asks, turning to Richie with a bright smile.

Richie chuckles and sits up, grabbing the tape recorder and bringing it closer to his mouth as if it were a microphone. “That’s a great story, actually. I just finished up a gig with my band Three Skin, formerly Four Skin, but our bassist left for personal reasons,” he pauses ominously, likely to add dramatic effect, but it’s really just annoying, “and I was walking home late at night, and I _thought_ I saw a toaster lying in the pit. And I just thought, ‘maybe I should go get that’.”

Mike rests a palm over his heart. “So tragic.”

“Wait, why would you get a toaster out of the pit? It’s gross and dirty and at the _bottom of a pit._ ” Beverly raises a brow.

“I don’t know, I was pretty wasted,” Richie chuckles, and Mike feels his body temperature drop so fast he might as well be floating face-down in the freezing water surrounding the Titanic.

Beverly looks shocked, too. “Wait, you were drunk?”

“Oh, totally, yeah,” Richie crosses his arms. “You knew that.”

Audra is having a field day.

“I didn’t know that, no,” Beverly’s raising her voice, now, and Eddie is curling in on himself in the corner, “you should’ve told me, we gave you anesthesia at the hospital, dipshit! Oh, my god!”

“Well I _probably_ wasn’t _thinking_ , because I was blackout drunk and had two broken fucking femurs!” Richie shoots back.

Mike’s career is over.

“Richie!” Beverly is a bit red in the face now. “I just can’t believe you’d pull shit like this. I thought we’d talked about the drinking.”

Richie sticks his tongue out, which is childish, yeah, but so’s Richie. “Oh, get off your high horse! I think it’s just funny that you’re acting like you’re so perfect. You’re on the pill, and you smoke all the time!”

“You’re allowed to do that,” Beverly rolls her eyes. Apparently this argument is pretty frequent.

“Stay on message!” Mike half yells.

Beverly sits back in her seat. “And thank you for bringing that up in front of a reporter, Rich.”

——————

“Eddie, let me ask you something,” Betty begins, playing with a Rubik’s cube, “would you say that I’m in the top five hottest lesbians in Derry?”

“No.”

“Who’s got me beat? Cheryl Lamonica from the Derry Today show?” Betty pauses. “She does. I don’t blame you, Cheryl Lamonica is hot as fuck.”

“Let me tell you something, Betty,” Stan calls, leaning against the doorframe. “You are the worst Scrabble player I’ve ever met in my life. You’re worse than my ex-wife, and she’s terrible at Scrabble. And she’s a bitch.”

Betty glances up at Stan with disinterest, examining her short cut nails. “I know, man. I’m gonna getcha one of these days. Like Blondie.”

“I doubt it. Her name is Greta Keene, and she is a serious bitch.”

——————

Mike ends up, by some miracle, managing to convince Audra to reschedule the meeting for the next day. They agree to meet at the pit, and Mike was somehow convinced that Audra would be at least a little bit professional about the whole thing.

Instead, he ends up waiting on her to show, standing near the edge of the pit with the photographer. “That might be a nice shot, right there. Get a good look at how deep the pit is.”

To his chagrin, he sees Tom Rogan pull up to the pit, wiggling his fingers out the window. Audra clambers out the other side. 

Mike doesn’t want to believe the worst, he really doesn’t, but her hair is mused and a bit flatter on one side than on the other. And she’s in the same clothes as the day before.

“Hi! Hi, sorry I’m late!” Audra calls, jogging up to Mike in black heels and running her fingers through her tangled hair. “Do you have a pen?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Mike shakes his head and cranes his neck to look at Tom. “Do you live close to Tom, then?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Audra walks over to the photographer on wobbly feet, and Mike can see her left knee quivering.

_A-fucking-okay._

_“I don’t wanna complain, but I think Audra is being a little bit unprofessional. I mean, this is the Derry Journal we’re talking about!”_

“Alright, so, Mike, how big is this lot?”

Mike has to shake his head to jostle himself out of his trance, eyes coming into focus on Audra’s stupid messed up hair and wrinkled dress. “What?”

Audra blinks. “How big is it? The lot?”

“I don’t know, Audra Phillips. How big is the lot? You tell me!” Mike can’t bear not answering the question. “100 or something. I don’t know. 100.”

“100 what?” Audra presses, and Mike is tempted to wipe that confused look off her face.

“I don’t know, I guess...guess I don’t know anything, huh?”

Audra looks concerned, more than anything, “are you okay?”

Mike looks towards his silver 2007 Honda Accord and starts off towards it, “I need to get something from my car,” his shoes kick up dust behind him.

——————

Eddie’s sitting in Betty’s seat, at Betty’s desk, playing on Betty’s computer. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Eddie repeats, as if he’s fucking deaf, which Betty knows he’s not because just last week he listened in on the confidential phone call she was having with her wife. “I’m kicking Stan’s ass at Scrabble. I just played ‘lexicons’ for, like, a billion points.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” Betty leans over Eddie’s shoulder to look at the screen. “‘Lateral’? ‘Communal’? _‘Zonal_ ’? What the fuck, Eddie, you dropped a ‘Z’ in there?”

“I don’t see the problem,” Eddie says, like an _idiot._

Betty groans. “I was letting him win, dumbass!”

It’s not like Betty’s stupid, no. She’s not. She’s actually quite smart, she attended Derry Community College. It’s just that Stan is scary. No, not scary, exactly, just terrifying. And every time Betty sees him she’s filled with such an overwhelming and powerful fear. Which might be a bit ridiculous, but nobody said Betty Ripsom wasn’t ridiculous.

——————

“Hello? Audra Phillips from the Derry Journal? This is the deputy director of the Parks Department, and-” Mike’s cradling the phone in his hand.

“Mike?” Audra’s voice cuts through, nice and clear.

Mike nods, then, remembering that Audra can’t see, answers her out loud. “Yes. It’s me,” he pauses and adjusts the tiny pride flag in a mug on his desk, “I ate a bad burrito.”

Mike senses the confusion even through the phone, almost coming in waves. “Sorry, what?”

“At the interview?” Mike rephrases and fiddles with his pens, carefully aligned in rainbow order by Eddie. “I was kind of weird. I had a bad burrito. So I was hoping we could have a redo? A second redo, I mean.”

He’s expecting for Audra to push back a bit, but her response is anything but rude. “That sounds great! We could meet over lunch?”

“Lunch is good,” Mike agrees with a grin. 

Opting for humor, supposedly, Audra decides to take a stab at a joke. “I guess we won’t be having Mexican?”

Mike blinks dumbly and licks his lips, studying a framed photo of Barack Obama next to the paper tray. “Why wouldn’t we have Mexican?”

_A little racist, maybe, Audra? I bet that’d make headlines._

“...because of the burrito?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a Mexican burrito,” Mike excuses quickly, nodding. “See you tomorrow at 11.”

He hangs up.

——————

“JJ’s Diner. The meeting place of the political elite. Everybody who’s anybody eats here. All the movers and shakers of Derry…” Mike narrates as they sit down in their seats, prompting a look from Audra that makes it seem like she’s just sucked on a sour lemon. “Right there is the infamous seat where they put Bob Gray under arrest.”

Audra follows his finger to a seat in the corner that proudly displays a framed photo above it, in black and white, of a man in clown makeup. “Are you sure that’s the best thing for you right now?”

She’s referring, of course, to the plate of waffles piled high on Mike’s plate. They’re topped with whipped cream and a healthy glob of syrup, dripping down into a puddle and soaking through the waffle on the bottom.

“What are you talking about, this is the best thing on the menu,” Mike shakes his head and furiously saws at a triangular piece of waffle with his knife. “So, listen, I think I got a little off message at the pit the other day.”

“You did seem kinda weird,” Audra agrees, taking out her notepad and sipping at a glass of water that’s been dripping onto the hardwood tabletop.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say weird-” Mike stuffs his bite into his mouth, chewing almost aggressively on it to avoid talking through the bite. “It’s just that we’re trying to turn this hideous eyesore into a beautiful community park, and, honestly, a good article in the paper could help that go a long way.”

He’s playing politics, plain and simple, trying to cater to a more sympathetic side of Audra.

She’s seeing right through it, probably, gorgeous stony eyes staring holes into his soul and her finger tapping on the notepad. “Can you tell me honestly what the odds are that this park will get made, then?”

“Can I say 100%? I feel like saying less would be a lie.”

“Wow,” Audra gives him a consolatory smile, and Mike’s stomach goes a bit queasy. “You’re a lot more confident about this than most other people I’ve talked to. Do you mind if I read some of these to you?”

“Oh, be my guest,” Mike holds his hand out, palm up, to give her clearance to go on, but then he interrupts when she starts speaking. “Put my service...to the test.”

_Audra clearly isn’t a fan of Beauty and the Beast._

“‘The Neibolt Street Pit is always going to be a pit’.”

“Well, yes, until we turn it into a park. I agree.”

Audra blinks before continuing. “‘You should write an article on unicorns, because they’re more likely to exist than this park’.”

_Pfft. Weak sauce._

“Oh, really? How about you tell that to a 14-year-old girl. And me. I believe in unicorns,” Mike speaks around a mouthful of mostly whipped cream, and something tells him that Jessica Hanlon is crying in Heaven. Bless her soul.

“‘You should write an article on the Pope getting married, because that’s more likely to happen than this park’,” Audra presses on.

“There are actually some countries where the Pope can get married.”

“‘You should write an article on leprechauns’.”

“Leprechauns exist. Ever had Lucky Charms?” The sheer amount of desperation seeping into Mike’s voice is embarrassing.

Audra clears her throat. “‘You should write an article about the Sun falling out of the sky-’”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, because that’s just stupid. Why would you do that?”

“So, this one just says ‘no’,” Audra purses her lips before she reads the last one, scratching behind her ear. “‘This park is never, ever, ever going to happen’.”

And ouch, that one hurts more than the rest. Mike feels himself deflate, and there’s a pressure behind his eyes that he knows all too well. “May I ask who said that last one?”

“Um...Tom Rogan?”

_Wow._

——————

“Stan Uris,” Betty holds her arms out as if to go in for a hug.

Stan is holding a mug that reads ‘for the birds’, brows narrowed. “Elizabeth.”

“I really don’t know what to tell you, man. Eddie got on my computer. Password was saved, he got on Scrabble. I don’t even know what ‘lexicons’ are! I thought that was a luxury automobile. He was probably cheating anyways.”

“I knew it couldn’t be you,” Stan admits, and Betty isn’t even offended. “You don’t have the vocabulary.”

Betty slips her hands into the pockets of her pants. “I don’t even know how to spell vocabulary. V-O-G-X...agh! I can’t do it. Didn’t ever pass the third grade,” she chews on the inside of her cheek, “we good?”

“We’re good.”

——————

_“I’m no idiot. I know Betty has been letting me win on purpose. But I like Betty. She doesn’t do a lot of work around here. She shows zero initiative, she’s not a team player. She’s never one to go that extra mile. Betty...is exactly what I look for in an employee.”_

——————

“Well, the article came out. And it was a mixed bag. ‘An abandoned lot on Neibolt Street has been proposed at the site of a community park’. That part’s good, we stayed on message for that. It gets a little unpleasant here. ‘Pretty drunk’, ‘Bev’s on the pill’...I didn’t throw up, I spit up...JJ’s Diner gets a nice mention! Oh, and right here, at the end... ‘we’ll see’. Ends on a hopeful note.”

——————

Betty and Mike step out of Mike’s Honda, magenta silk dress pants bunched up around her ankles. Mike knows she buys a fuckton of the expensive, nice shit with her wife’s paycheck, benefits of having a doctor as a wife, but that’s none of his business.

“So...there are kids down here who are digging bags of dog shit out of trash cans and having dog shit battles.”

Mike shakes his head as they approach the screeching teens. “I don’t believe it,” he catches a whiff as they get close, and a small, semi-clear bag lands at his feet. “Oh, my god, it’s real.”

Betty looks up from her heels to the teens where they’re rearing up to throw, spinning on her heel and trying to run back to the car. “Yeah. I’m not dealing with this. Good luck!”

“Hey! Hey, boys?” Mike prides himself on being able to deal with teens, truly. He gets through. “I’m Mike Hanlon, I work for the Department of Parks and Recreation-”

“Get his shoes!”

Or not.

“NO!”

The boys are launching their bags of shit at him, and it smells, well, like shit.

“Help! Help, please, Betty!” Betty’s sitting in the front of the Accord, hiding behind the wheel. Mike picks up the lid of the garbage can, trying to shield himself from the flying bags of dog shit. “Oh, god, it smells so bad-how could you think this is fun? This isn’t fun!” He reaches down nonetheless to grab the plastic part of the bag, as far away from the dung as he can get, with the tips of his fingers and flings it at a boy near the front.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah?” The boy yells, cackling and reaching to grab another bag.

Mike almost dives to grab another bag that’s landed a few feet away and drags it close, swinging it over his head and launching it. “You like that? Huh? Eat it!”

A bag flies at him and he deflects with his garbage can lid. “Missed it!”

_“This is fun, actually. This is kind of fun.”_

——————

“Guys! Check out what Tracker Brothers Trucking sent over.”

Betty sets a basket of wine and cheese down on the table in the middle of the circular table in the office. Kay is sitting there, her acrylics tap-tap-tapping against the screen of her phone.

Steve looks up as it’s set down, taking his glasses off to observe the basket as if the glasses aren’t fucking there to help him fucking see. “Oh, I love Great Lakes wine.”

Kay licks her lips and grins. “You can have all the wine you want, I wanna take that cheese and do terrible things to it.”

“No, no, no, no!” Mike tuts as he enters the room and grabs the basket off the table. “We are not allowed to accept gifts of over $25. For corrupt reasons. We live in a fish bowl and the public is always watching. That’s why I have to go two towns over if I want to rent a movie with nudity.”

“Mmm,” Kay nods.

“Probably shouldn’t have said that,” Mike admits, “but you cannot enjoy this basket. And so to avoid temptation,” he holds the basket up for dramatic effect, “I am going to lock it up.”

——————

_“When you’re in government, there’s a million ways to exploit your power. Have I ever given in to that temptation? No, never. I’m not that kind of politician.”_

——————

Betty jogs up to the hot dog stand in Bassey Park, wearing expensive-looking olive track pants. “Just need to grab a quick hot dog.”

A little girl stares up at her, frowning.

Betty simply holds up her ID, showing her as a member of the Parks Department. “Sorry about that, little girl. You can get the next one.”

_“I have a moral code, and I never violate it. People look at me and say, ‘wow, Betty! You’re like a lesbian Superman that stands for justice the American way’.”_

——————

Beverly is standing with her arms crossed, squished into the corner behind Mike’s desk.

“Bev, I’ve called you here today because I asked Eddie to make a Facebook profile for the pit. You guys ready for the debut?”

Steve nods in encouragement. “We gonna cut the red ribbon around your monitor?”

“I love ribbon cutting,” Kay muses.

Eddie snips the ribbon with a large, clunky pair of scissors.

And Mike? Mike is completely overwhelmed with the urge to cry. “Oh, Eddie. Good boy, good boy, it’s good.”

“Yeah,” Eddie just looks bored.

_Kids._

“Oh, look! The pit already has six friends,” Mike beams and clasps his hands together under his chin.

“Woah, check out Tom’s profile,” Eddie sits up and clicks on it, and immediately blanches. “Dude, this chick has a thong on her face!”

Betty leans in close, squinting. “She’s hot. Is she tagged?”

“Betty!” Mike scolds, covering Eddie’s arms with his hand. “Where is Tom, anyways? He’s on the subcommittee, too.”

“Oh, he’s out with his boys’ club,” Kay scoffs and starts filing her nails down furiously with a coffee stirrer, which Mike isn’t completely sure is even possible. Good for her.

The boys’ club, in reference, is a little club the men of the local government like to partake in. Tom and a few other guys from City Planning, Zoning, and Public Safety. They’re all white, of course.

Derry’s come a long way in terms of acceptance, but there’s still a lot of pushback. There’s never been a woman or person of color as the city councilor, and the one gay club in town (The Falcon, right behind Stan’s house, which he’s complained about too many times) gets egged every Sunday morning before the early church services.

So no, Mike isn’t included in Tom’s little boys’ club. He’s not white, or straight-not that they know that quite yet-but oh, god, he’d sure like to be a part.

And Mike Hanlon gets what he wants. Mostly.

——————

“Hey, boys!” Mike steps into the courtyard, waving at Tom and his pals and grinning. Everyone else, for the most part, has gone home, and he wants to, as well, but he wants to get in with the boys’ club even more. He’s brought Bev for support, and she wiggles her fingers behind him.

“Come to bust up your boys’ club!” Bev cheers, grinning and leaning into Mike’s side.

Tom glances at Beverly and decides it’s not so bad. “Cool. Let me get you a beer.”

_“We’re in.”_

——————

Inside, Eddie sits at his desk, doodling all over his jeans and holding his phone to his ear. “Natalie, it’s your brother. Come get me or I’ll draw all over your jeans.”

He adds another smiley face near the ankle.

——————

“Well, boys, looks like we’re out of beer,” Tom sighs, stretching his arms up above his head. “That’s the good lord’s way of telling us it’s time to go.”

“Wait, what?” Mike jolts to his feet from where he’d been nursing a drink for half an hour. “The party’s just beginning!”

“Right, parties start when you run out of booze, makes sense,” Tom crosses his arms and scoffs.

Somewhere, in the back of Mike’s mind, he thinks this is a very, very bad idea. But at the moment he’s pleasantly buzzed, and he kind of likes the boys’ club.

“Stay right here.”

So he ducks his way into the building, grabs the gift basket, and makes his way back out with the wine and cheese

Everyone cheers, because Mike Hanlon is a life saver, and he must think the validation is better than political integrity, so he pops open the bottle.

_I’m sure this won’t come back to bite me in the ass._

——————

Mike hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep.

“Good morning. Last night, in a foolish attempt to infiltrate a boys’ club, I opened a basket of wine and cheese. In doing so, I violated the government employee ethics code of Maine. I realize I have let down every marginalized person in the American government, and I would like to apologize to each and every one of them in alphabetical order, starting with women. Michele Bachmann, Republican, Minnesota. I am so sorry. Tammy Baldwin, Democrat, Wisconsin. I am so, so sorry, Tammy. Melissa Bean…”

——————

“Alright, baby. Double shift, remember, so I won’t see you until tomorrow,” Beverly presses a kiss to Richie’s sweaty head. “You gonna be alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie nods and holds up a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. “I got dinner.”

Beverly wants to rip her hair out. “Oh, god, honey, can you just try and clean up a little bit? Please?”

Richie looks like he wants to argue, but he nods and closes his eyes. “Alright. I’ll try. Don’t expect much, though.”

Beverly ruffles his hair and smiles a bit, but it isn’t real, doesn’t meet her eyes. She looks almost sad, biting her lip and looking at the front door. “I’ll just do it when I get home.”

“You will?” Richie leans into her touch, her nails scratching his scalp and making him sigh in pleasure at the feeling.

“Yeah.”

——————

_“Bevvie is an amazing person. And I love her. Hard. She’s an angel. She takes care of me, and sick people, and also babies...and since she’s gone for the next 24 hours, I made a list. Basically, this place is going to sparkle when she gets back. I took a helluva bunch of painkillers, and they’re about to kick in, so I’m ready to go._

——————

“I have to come clean about something,” Mike admits, walking into the common area. “Last night, I, Michael William Hanlon, opened a wine and cheese basket for my own pleasure.”

Betty glares at the basket and tuts in disappointment. “Usually such a stickler for the rules. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“I’m not happy about it either, Betty.”

Steve screws up his face in confusion. “Last month you wrote me up for making personal calls to my mom.”

Mike snaps his fingers at Steve. “And I would do it again. Two wrongs do not make a right.”

“Yes, but she was in the hospital,” Steve points out.

“I…” Mike makes a face and ducks his head. “I did not know that at the time.

Kay shrugs and reaches out for the basket. “So can I keep the basket, then?”

“No, it’s evidence,” Mike snatches it off the table, because he knows Kay won’t hesitate to grab it and make off with the thing.

“It’s a nice basket,” Kay points out.

Betty scoffs. “What would you keep in that basket?”

“I don’t know. Potpourri?”

“Lot of potpourri,” Betty is studying the basket, as if imaging the amount of potpourri that could be fit into the basket.

——————

“Stan, I should go to jail.”

“Think about what you did, you’re not jail-bound,” Stan drags his hand down his face.

Mike shakes his head. “You aren’t listening to me. I’m a fraud. Everything I’ve ever stood for ever in my life is ruined, all because I was selfish and consumed by my need to join a stupid boys’ club.”

Stan leans forward, adjusting one of the many whittled wooden birds around his desk a bit. “This is ridiculous, Mike. You’re punishing yourself for something that isn’t a big deal.”

“So what do we do?” Mike asks, chewing on his nails nervously. “Cover it up? Oh, my god, Stan, the cover-up is worse than the crime.”

——————

_“Hello. Since we last spoke, I have further taken steps to make amends to the mistake I’ve made. I have written a full confession, which I will be emailing to everyone in the entire Derry government. I have attached the pit’s Facebook page as well to remind people of all the good I do. I asked Stan to blow the whistle on me, which he refused to do, so I blew the whistle on myself.”_

——————

Richie stands in the middle of the living room, crutches positioned under his pits, two garbage bags at his feet. “I wish I could say some of this mess was Bev’s. It’s not.”

——————

The video on the screen of Steve’s computer can only be described as sheer horror. And Eddie has the audacity to look proud.

 _“So...I’m doing an experiment to see what’ll get me drunker,_ ” Eddie says on screen, holding the neck of the bottle to his lips, _“drinking wine…”_

His cheeks are flushed, a pretty pink high on the apples. He’s leaning back in the seat, throwing the wine back like it’s a Capri-Sun and gripping the edge of the desk.

_“Right now, drinking wine is winning…”_

“Oh, my god. Eddie, what is this?”

Eddie shrugs and grins, picking at his nails. “A video of me getting drunk off the wine you stole.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because...I was waiting for my sister to pick me up and I got bored, and also my hair looked really good,” Eddie drones, eyes half lidded.

“Okay, and you put it on the pit’s Facebook?” Mike is starting to freak out, his chest is tight, and his breaths aren’t coming fast enough. “I sent an email and linked it to everyone in the Derry government.”

“Young lawbreaker...future Michael Hanlon,” Betty scolds, like a bitch. “Play it again, Steve.”

Just when Mike thinks it can’t get any worse, Stan opens the door, and he looks pissed. “Mike.”

——————

“He’s 19 years old, Michael. I told you not to make this worse and you went and made it worse,” Stan begins, voice soft, and Mike is freaking out so bad he feels like his stomach is going to drop out his ass.

“And I heard you loud and clear.”

“But you made it worse,” Stan points out. “The disciplinary committee is having a hearing and you have to testify tomorrow.”

“Oh, god.”

“Eddie might get dismissed, you could get fired,” Stan’s going on, and on, and Mike can’t take it.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, no, oh god,” Mike lays down on the bench, and it's so hard and tough, “this bench is so uncomfortable, ow. Stan, please help me. You gotta help me, please, Stan.”

Stan clearly doesn’t know how to comfort a person, but he’s doing his best, crouching down beside Mike and frowning.

“Tell me it’ll be okay,” Mike’s outwardly sobbing now, hands pressed to his cheeks.

Stan clears his throat and pats Mike’s shoulder. “It’ll-it’s-um-hang on.

“Stan!”

“Okay. You’re okay.”

——————

“Stan? Thank you for being here with me today,” Mike looks at the table, the men of the disciplinary committee sitting across from them.

Stan looks at the peeling wallpaper over their heads. “I have to, I’m your department head.”

“Nonetheless.”

A man at the other side of the table who looks like a coked up, old, shriveled Brad Pitt addresses Mike. “Mr. Hanlon. You’re here because you accepted a gift over $25 and contributed to the delinquency of a minor.”

Mike exhales sharply. “Yes.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Mike reaches over to grab a glass of water, sipping it and hoping it makes him less hot under the collar. “Two days ago, I attended an informal boys’ club. And...awash the glow of acceptance and unity, I-”

The man frowns. “What club is this?”

“Once a week, some guys from City Planning and a few surrounding departments get together to drink beer together,” Stan explains quickly.

“No one is supposed to drink alcohol on government property.”

“Not my department.”

Mike continues. “I opened a basket of wine and cheese, so that the boys’ club could keep going, and somehow, our intern, Eddie Kaspbrak, got ahold of the wine. He had not been invited to the boys' club. I repeat, not been invited. Whatever you do, please don’t blame him for my mistake.”

Mike feels like he’s going to vomit.

The man nods. “Can you go over the timeline again for us?’

Apparently, that’s the last straw for Stan. “What else do you want him to do?

“Well, we have a few more questions-”

“Stan, it’s okay,” Mike whispers.

Stan scowls. “No! This is not communist China. You can’t make him whip himself, you can’t make him wear a hair shirt. This is America. You wanna live in communist China, fine! I don’t want to!I want to live in America! Mike has never broken a law in his life, to the point that it’s annoying. You wanna slap him on the wrist? Fine. You want to do anything more? You go through me.”

The room is silent, and Mike is as surprised as the men in the room. “Are we done? We’re done, let’s go.”

Mike stands up and follows close behind Stan, trailing behind him and smiling softly. “Thank you, Stan.”

“Don’t mention it,” Stan conceals a smile, turning around just slightly to clap his hand down on Mike’s shoulder.

——————

“I am...currently...washing myself,” Richie sits in the kiddie pool, ass naked, with music blaring from the boombox beside him. “I got this idea from my parents. It’s how they wash their dog. And the song? I wrote this for Beverly, it’s gonna be playing when she gets home tonight.”

The gate door creaks open, and Lawrence stands in the archway, frowning. “Tozier.”

“Lawrence, get the fuck out of my yard!” Richie groans, hands dropping into the soapy water and splashing it up into his hair.

“Turn the music down.”

“Wh-no! It’s my backyard, I can do whatever the hell I want,” Richie closes his eyes and leans his head back against the edge of the kiddie pool.

Lawrence darts forward and grabs the boombox, dragging it off the lawn chair Richie’d set it on. “I asked you nicely, man.”

“You did not ask nicely!” Richie jolts up, and the water in the kiddie pool around him sloshes out into the yard. “Give me my boombox, I just put twelve new batteries in that thing!”

“No,” Lawrence begins backing up with the boombox, and Richie finds that fucking ridiculous, so he stands up, ass fucking naked, and grabs his crutches to follow.

“Lawrence, you asshole, give it back!” 

He’s swinging after Lawrence with no shame whatsoever screaming bloody murder.

——————

“Eddie?” Mike treads gently into the office, knocking on the wood three times.

Eddie’s sitting at the desk, face buried in his knees. He looks glum, in Mike’s eyes, and Mike considers himself pretty good at reading people. “Go away, Mike.”

Mike doesn’t. He sits down on the floor next to Eddie, laying a palm on the younger boy’s knee. “Eddie,” he repeats, softer this time, looking up at Eddie.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie murmurs, “I’m really, really sorry., Are you fired? Did I get you fired?”

“Oh, no, Eddie,” Mike assures, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re fine. I’m just...I want to make sure you’re safe here, alright? We all care about you, kid, and we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Eddie nods, peeking up over the tops of his knees, and sniffling. “Okay. I feel safe here.”

Mike sits up on his knees and holds up a pinkie to Eddie, which elicits a confused sniffle. “Pinkie promise?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, snorting and wrapping his pinkie around Mike’s. “Pinkie promise.”

——————

Beverly enters the house and gasps, nearly dropping her bag.

“Ta-da!” Richie cheers, holding an arm up into the air. He has scratches all over his face and arms, but he’s wearing fresh clothes and the house looks great. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, my god, babe, I love it, thank you so much. It’s so sweet,” Beverly steps up to Richie and presses a gentle kiss to his lips, beaming. “Oh, shit! What happened here?” Her fingers ghost over a scratch on Richie’s forehead.

“Ah...I fell in some prickly bushes while I was chasing our neighbor, who is a total jagweed, by the way. No biggie,” Richie grins dopily and leans back in for another kiss.

“Sit down, baby. Let me put something on those,” Beverly hums, ducking away from his advance and walking into the kitchen.

Richie grins smugly. “Looks like someone’s getting gently laid tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! finally! chapter two!  
> i'm pretty proud of this one, even though it's short.  
> i'm admittedly not the best with deadlines and writing for a long period of time, and it's tough to write a lot of words and such.  
> i know eddie doesn't have a sister, but natalie is a fun minor character that i really loved from the show and she's a bit essential to later plot points!!  
> i hope you all enjoy it, i really do  
> also richie is so insanely fun to write omg

**Author's Note:**

> here‘s a character list
> 
> LESLIE KNOPE- Mike Hanlon  
> BEN WYATT- Bill Denbrough  
> ANN PERKINS- Beverly Marsh  
> RON SWANSON- Stan Uris  
> APRIL LUDGATE- Eddie Kaspbrak  
> ANDY DWYER- Richie Tozier  
> CHRIS TRAEGER- Ben Hanscom  
> DONNA MEAGLE- Kay McCall  
> TOM HAVERFORD- Betty Ripsom  
> TAMMY TWO- Greta Keene  
> TAMMY ONE- Sally Mueller  
> MONA-LISA SAPERSTEIN- Myra Kaspbrak  
> JEAN RALPHIO SAPERSTEIN- Victor Criss  
> JERRY GERGICH- Steve the manager  
> MARK BRENDANAWICZ- Tom Rogan  
> DIANE SWANSON- Patty Blum-Uris  
> SEWAGE JOE- Patrick Hockstetter  
> JOAN CALLAMEZZO- Cheryl Lamonica  
> CRAIG MIDDLEBROOKS- Eddie Corcoran  
> PERD HAPLEY- Belch Huggins  
> SHAUNA MALWAE-TWEEP- Audra Phillips  
> COUNCILMAN DEXHEART- Henry Bowers
> 
> also, i tried my best to fit as much as i could in, but i will be changing around events and some characters (for example, tom as mark) to make sense with this.
> 
> also please feel free to comment i literally feed off of validation and it motivates me to write more


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